I am a huge fan of Deliza Rafferty! I love the Savannah Rossi Chronicles. They are short, hot, and to the point!! So I am honored to be apart of her Hound Dog Blog Tour. This is the fourth volume in the series. I have read the other three and WHOA NELLY
Alrighty my peeps here is the cover and an excerpt form the fourth volume of The Savannah Rossi Chronicles...enjoy.....
You’re about to meet Greg Richter. Don’t fuck it up, Sav. Calm down, you’ve got this.
She didn’t have to wait long, because at that moment a door Savannah hadn’t noticed on the other side of the room opened and in walked a very tall, somewhat lanky, swarthy-complected, dark-eyed man in a pale blue denim button-up shirt that was only half tucked in to a rumpled pair of khakis. His hair was a shock of loose, possibly unwashed curls that fell haphazardly to his unshaven jaw and over his forehead. On his feet he wore Birkenstocks over grungy white socks. Overall, he seemed a bit of a mess. Savannah couldn’t tell if it was apathy or very carefully planned, as she had only seen him on television dressed for awards shows or decently groomed for magazine photo shoots.
He saw Savannah and smiled. It lit up his entire face and the room. He came toward her quickly with his hand out. Savannah scooted off the fat couch a bit gracelessly but managed to get her feet on the floor and grasp his hand without mishap.
“Savannah, I’m Greg. Thanks for coming.”
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGodohmyGod! GregfuckingRichter! And he doesn’t smell as dirty as he looks…
“Hello, so nice to meet you. Thank you so much for having me.”
He shook her hand and gestured for her to follow him back to the door in which he entered. “Thanks, Aimes,” he said offhandedly, not bothering to make eye contact with his assistant. Savannah glanced at Aimee as she passed in time to see her drop her eyes and murmur dejectedly, “Sure.”
There was no time for empathy, however, because Greg said as he ushered Savannah through the door, “Donald speaks so highly of you. From what I heard on your website I can see why. You’ve really got a set of pipes.”
Savannah’s stomach was in utter chaos. “Well, he gets all the credit. He’s an amazing teacher.”
“Yeah, well…you have to be born with something special in the first place, to be able to sound like that even after studying with someone as good as Donald. Good songs, too. Are they yours?”
Savannah almost fell over just then. “Uh…wow, thank you, yes. Mine and my bass player’s, Leif Jensen. He’s my main writing partner.” GregfuckingRichter just complimented her songwriting. She thought she might pee herself. “Uh-in fact, we’re very influenced by your solo work. You can really hear it on our second EP.”
Savannah had been following behind Greg through a short wood-paneled hallway lined with more framed memorabilia from his illustrious career as well as what appeared to be some collector’s items that were probably worth a penny or two. Greg stopped in his tracks and turned to face Savannah after her last sentence.
“Really?” It was not a question. “I’m not gonna have to sue you for infringement, am I?”
Terror ripped through Savannah’s heart. “Oh…oh God…no, it’s not like that --”
Greg started laughing hysterically. He slapped Savannah’s shoulder. “I’m just kidding! Hot damn, I love doing that to people when they tell me I’m an influence. You should’ve seen your face!”
Instead of relief, Savannah’s first reaction was that of her Italian temper boiling through her veins like lava. She was not amused, as she didn’t find being humiliated and terrorized by someone she’d known all of thirty seconds to be funny in the least. What kind of a jerk was she dealing with?
A jerk with a whole lot of pull in your industry and even more money…
Seeing the look of offense on her lovely face and the confusion in her big peridot eyes, Greg quickly began to quiet himself, realizing his mistake. “Aw man, I’m sorry. Really, I was just kidding. Aimes would kick me in the sack for doing that. I’m such an asshole.” He was still smiling slightly, though he seemed genuinely contrite.
Savannah’s temper had served to remind her who she was -- a confident, skilled professional musician who was certainly not a person who lost her composure around celebrities. They were just people like her and this one just proved it. She decided to treat him as her equal, because he was, even if it cost her the job.
Bravely, she steadied her pale green gaze on him and said, “Yes. At this moment, you are.”
When Greg’s expression went completely flat, it was Savannah’s turn to start laughing, giving back as good as she got. At first shocked, he started laughing again, too.
“Aha, you, I like,” he said, pointing at her. “We’re gonna get along just fine.” He gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze, then turned and started down the hall again. “Come with me. We’ll be working in the small studio today.”
Savannah breathed a mental sign of relief and followed him through one of three doors near the end of the hallway. It led to the engineering room where the recording equipment was housed. A large window in front of the mixing console revealed the recording booth on the other side, which could easily fit a four piece band with plenty of extra room. This “small room” was still bigger than most of the recording studios in Hollywood Savannah had been hired to work in. She wondered what the “big room” must look like.
In the chair at the mixing board with his back to them was presumably the session engineer, who didn’t hear them come in because he had headphones on. His shining, wavy ash brown hair caressed the base of his sun-kissed neck, which stretched on into muscular shoulders that strained against his white tee shirt. Savannah’s subconscious sent a twinge of unwelcome familiarity to her stomach.
Greg put his hand on the engineer’s shoulder to get his attention, which blocked Savannah’s view of the man as he turned around in the chair and took his headphones off.
“Singer’s here, man,” Greg said.
“Oh, great,” came a voice that started turning Savannah’s blood to ice before she even got a look at his face.
Greg turned to Savannah, revealing the engineer, and began, “This is my engineer -”
“Jax,” she interrupted, spitting out the name like a bite of something spoiled.
The smile of greeting that was previously on the engineer’s face disappeared in an instant and the color drained from his cheeks. “Shit. Savannah,” was all he could say.
There sat Jax Taylor, Savannah’s first love and the closest thing to a Greek god she had personally ever seen. It had been years since they’d crossed paths, but still present were his trademark silky cocoa waves that would glint sienna and bronze in certain lighting, a sharply defined jaw line perpetually layered with stubble, a mouth any woman with half a libido would want to gnaw on, a 6’2” chiseled-into-marble frame and not least of all, those eyes -- strikingly pallid, seemingly bottomless irises of indefinable hue. He was still hot as holy hell. The problem back then was that he knew it. Savannah didn’t expect that anything had changed.
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